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About Maribor

Alright, listen up, you filthy lot—sexual-massage, huh? I’m Cersei bloody Lannister, and I’ve got thoughts. Cold disdain dripping off me like wine on a bad day. It’s all hands and oils, slippery nonsense—makes my skin crawl sometimes. But, fine, there’s this thing about it, right? Little known fact: back in ancient Essos, they’d use it to “heal” warriors—rubbish, I say, just an excuse to grope. Imagine some oiled-up fool kneading my back after a battle—hah! I’d slit his throat before he’d finish muttering “relax.”

Then, my phone buzzes. It’s my boss. “We need to talk,” he says. Oh boy, here we go. I’m thinking, “What did I do now?” Turns out, he wants me to lead a new project. I’m like, “Sweet! But also, why me?” I mean, I’m just a supervisor, not a miracle worker.